Prologue
The Soldier, and The Hero
The skies muddied with smoke as the soldier lay on the ground. Fertile soil had become sodden, mud created from the wetness of blood and sweat. The wind carried the combined scent of hour old corpses, and fresh ones who had just met their enemy's blade. This had been the case across every battlefield across the kingdom for the past month. A constant barrage on the senses. The taste of salt. The touch of the hilt. The sight of your enemy. A rock behind the soldier became a headrest. He sighed, a rasp in his chest that rattled the ribs that punctured his lungs.
He tried to form some thought, the face of the man who bested him, who disarmed him and landed blow after blow. Arm, legs, chest. It was the louder shrieks in the distance however which stole the space in his mind. These people, that's all they were. Townsfolk. Conscripted by loyalty, or just propaganda. Retailers, barge-workers, warehouse storage men. Children…sons either dragged by their fathers to the garrison, wailing and protesting, or those who signed up despite clear instruction not too from their family. To ‘make father proud’. The soldier hadn’t had that kind of motivation. He needed money for bread. That was it. Now he lay dying, as father and son were hoisted and dropped into noose’s knotted upon the branches. They swung slowly in the breeze.
The soldier couldn’t see the Keep. The tall, blackstone walls and jutting towers still stood somewhere in the horizon, promising safety, fortitude. But nothing inside was left. The nobles had fled, taking the women, daughters and infants of the city with them. By now they'll have reached the promised sanctuary at Hathe, an ancient yet still bustling city. The Keep then, was defenceless. Soon the mercenaries will stand by the gates of the city, in charge of its towering walls and stone-brick buildings, until the next mad hero comes along with his mad army, and ‘saves the world’. Cyclical. It was all cyclical. The only constants were life, and death.
Alive, and Dead. His commanding officer, a tall balding man from Hathe, had relayed this philosophy to him through an old poem.
“Remember this boy,” the captain said between swigs of ale, that southern accent becoming stronger with each sip, “prophecy and legends are for madmen. No man is immortal. Everyone can die”.
He lay headless, half buried under the blood stained sludge outside the Keep he swore to protect.
The soldier suddenly found himself vertical. The speed of which he was picked up shifted his organs further, and definitely pushed another one of his ribs into his right lung.
He was turned slowly in the air, a scowling group of soldiers watching around him (since when did they get so close?), and met face to face with a figure of great stature.
Towering at least seven feet, the man had slicked back black hair, which curled back up slightly at its ends. His eyes were grey, but were as piercing as the brightest blue, and he wore a smile upon his face. A grim smile. In one hand, he held a long claymore, clearly for two handed use, the top immersed in a stone that had been carved into a pointed blade.
His entire body was the epitome of strength. The man to his left, clearly a Zauberer of some talent, kept its hand and wrist slowly rotating, a swirling ouroboros-like circle a few inches away from his hand. The soldier had been trained to deal with the Zauberer, a group of magical beings from the western regions. The Großartiger Zauberer (grand magician) received ‘prophecy’ that The Hero would cleanse the world of evil, and bring forth a new empire. This had happened before, and had been ignored. Even before, the ‘hero’ chosen would push aside the idea. Prophecy wasn’t seen as useful. It wasn’t true, could not be held, could not be stored. It was a belief that many did not fall into. The Hero though, was egotistical enough to believe it. As soon as he accepted the offer to train with the Zauberer to ‘prepare’, the magicians began hatching this plan of prophesied conquest alongside him. Even when said hero couldn’t pull the sword out of the stone, the Zauberer hired stonemason’s to chisel the sword out, leading to the sword tip to be a sharpened stone.
The soldier watched the shifting spell. Mächtig. Strength. But…no. It was different. Mächtig was a pale white, sometimes yellow colour, and even the most talented of Zauberer could only make a man two times as strong. This though, it was a strong, bright yellow. To be hoisted up by The Hero with ease…
“Watch.” The Hero’s voice was gruff, deep. With the command The Hero turned the soldier's gaze back to the keep, of which was now in his vision. The soldier watched through blurry vision, as the central house, the building which held not only parliament, but the Keep’s ruler (Nobleman Wright, fled) lived, burst into flames. And then another building. And another. Butcher shops. Tailors. Cobblers. Markets and housing. The entire Keep, a bustling community, a symbol of commerce, his home, all of it became nothing but a dancing orange.
The Hero turned the man to face him again. The Mächtig burst into a bright yellow that could rival the sun and the flames. Slowly, The Hero began squeezing down on the soldier's skull. He cried out in agony, but made sure to not face the man that was sure to kill him. He could do this in one clench. He wanted to torture the man. Not for information, no, just because he could. He was sending a message to the soldier before his death. He will kill him. As he did the others. As he will the rest.
“You know,” The Hero spoke through a deep exhale, not one of tiredness, no, one of satisfaction, “I have the memory of hundreds of burning buildings. Noble housing. Churches to false idols. Ghetto scrapheaps.” He gestured with his free hand towards the burning Keep. “I have heard the screams of thousands of men. Have bedded many women from the runaways I have captured.” He pulled the soldier close, his hot breath smothering the soldier's face, “I have a feeling that this battle and its… “rewards”, will be one of the best.“ The soldiers cheered in uproar, and even the Zauberer gave a small smile.
The soldier winced. Blood ran from his head. “Villains!” The soldier proclaimed, “all of you, nothing but-”
A squeeze on his head stopped his rant. The Hero scowled.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“We, are not, the villains here.”
Another rush of pressure and pain.
“You choose to pray over me. You chose GOD over ME. I promise sanctuary, yet you cling to scripture and your literary drivel.”
The soldier wailed in agony, his mind a scramble in his panic.
“But who is here for you now? No-one. Your God burns within your Keep, and Her remains fall as ash onto the bodies of your brethren. Your authors will never be studied. I remain. Your HERO remains.”
The soldier’s final thoughts held nothing. He was right. The God he prayed to as a child gave nothing to this fight. His family had all died before the conquest. His friends had all fought and felt the pain he now feels. He hadn’t even considered saving any of the scroll’s in the Keep’s library. It was then, in that moment of pure panic and weakness, the commander’s recollection of the Hathe poem came to his mind. The only piece of literature he remembered. The only piece that meant something to him. Head down, shaking in pain, he began to recite it.
“Seed…Flower…Dye,” the squeeze tightened, more blood followed, he felt his skull break. Through gritted teeth, he continued, “Sapling…Tree…Paper…”
“Look at me!” The Hero bellowed. The soldier looked directly in the eyes of The Hero. The squeeze at its penultimate strength. His vision became one-sided as his left eye popped out its socket. Agony beyond reasoning, the soldier still managed a final, defiant smile.
“Alive…Dea-”
The soldier’s head imploded in a gush of blood, a spot of which landed on the cheek of The Hero. He dropped the now limp body, and wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. It smudged across his cheek. Warm. The soldiers roared in reverence of their hero. A smile grew on his face.
“Go! Take what you wish! Leave nothing written or carved. The history of this Keep dies with the rest.” The Hero raised his blade, the two handed claymore lifted upwards easily with one hand. The soldiers nodded and turned, scraping armour against one another in a clamber towards the Keep. Nothing of what stood before his new Kingdom will live on in any known history. Only his mind. Even the soldiers will have their memory wiped of these events, unbeknownst to them of course, they wouldn’t have agreed to join his cause if not, even if the coin was high.
The Hero eyed the corpse of the soldier. His head, mangled from his hand, showed a defiant smile.
“Zauberer,” The magician turned his gaze towards The Hero, the Mächtig now just a pale white again, “what was that man saying?”
The hand of the Zauberer tensed in a claw-like manner, turning a blazing orange, its eyes rolling upwards, till nothing but the whites were showing. The Hero staggered from the sudden vacuum of power within himself. It however, quickly returned, as the eyes of the Zauberer came back facing forward, the orange hue fading back to the Mächtig colour. He had just learnt everything about the poem from just three lines spoken.
“An old Hathe poem, my liege,” the Zauberer said, “one about the fragility of life, it seems. Hathe literature is one to delve into such topics.”
The Hero nodded.
“Recite it for me.”
“Yes, my liege” The Zauberer said. He began to recite the poem:
-----------------------------------
Seed. Flower. Dye.
Sapling. Tree. Paper.
Alive. Dead.
The two states of which man can occupy.
It is foolish to think one can live past these notions.
Legends and myth are not a subsidiary of life.
All men die.
-----------------------------------
Silence. The Zauberer opened his mouth, either to recite a second verse, or to give extra information. The Hero however, raised his hand, and the Zauberer stayed silent. He got the idea, the reason why the soldier had decided to recite such a poem. It was a verbal stab. A reminder. A defiant voice saying ‘I’ll see you soon, no matter what your followers believe you are’.
“Großartiger Zauberer promised to me,” The Hero began, unsheathing the claymore at his side, “life lasting centuries.” The Hero examined the metal, shining against the fires, the stone sharp, but flat of colour. “Is that a promise he intends to keep, Zauberer?”
“I doubt I can speak for the Großartiger Zaub-'' The sharp stone edge swiftly rose to meet the neck of the Zauberer, causing a gasp to leave the magician.
“I speak to you, magician. Answer your hero.”
The Zauberer, a slight tremble in his voice, answered.
“Yes, my liege, I haven’t heard anything to oppose this truth.’
With a dutiful swing,The Hero brought the sword back to his side, leading to an exasperated sigh from the Zauberer.
The Hero glanced down upon the soldier one last time, before nodding towards the Keep.
“Come, let us join the troops.”
“Yes, my liege.” The Zauberer spoke. He scurried to the side of The Hero (not the side his claymore now delicately bounced from).
To be a hero, is to be ruthless. Großartiger Zauberer had taught him this from the start. He was 18 then. Now almost 30, he kept that phrase etched in his mind. Each kill, each family torn, each smiling soldier crushed beneath his palm, all was for the greater good of the new Kingdom. His new kingdom. The Großartiger Zauberer had promised him a long life, the life of a king, the life of a Hero. It was not his status he questioned, he knew he was a Hero. He commanded fear. People followed his teachings, his ways, his kingdom. Even the Zauberer by his side, faced by the stone tipped sword of such weak ‘myths’ the poem mentioned , couldn’t disagree with him. No, it was the longevity. No man had ever lived past a century, could someone, even someone as powerful as the Großartiger Zauberer, grant such a promise?
Alive. Dead. The two states of being. Could one increase how long the first lasted?
“We will see” The Hero thought.